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Thursday, January 07, 2010

Finding My Fix

I find Phoebe in suite four, hair captured in a surgical net. From behind the glass wall, I watch her caress the red stubble of her patient’s skull. The morning’s hard edge softens.

The surgeon saunters in. Backs to me, they confer, heads bobbing. Phoebe jabs at the chart. I walk in, wondering what’s up. Air conditioning blasts from the ceiling vent, making me shiver. They look up when I enter.

“Sullivan,” the surgeon says. His pocket reminds me he’s George Arrias, Assistant Head of Oncology Surgery. “Something odd with this protocol.”

Phoebe’s eyes question me over her blue mask. Not in a good way. I look closer, double check the doses, the timing. Sweat slicks my palms.

“See the boo-boo?” George says, all jolly to find a colleague possibly fucking up.

I don’t see anything wrong with this order. I scan the chart, looking for allergies. Penicillin? No problems there.

“No, Arrias,” I say, accenting the last syllable. “Everything looks copasetic to me.”

“Well, Doctor Miller sees a problem,” he says. “And so do I. So where’s Waldo, Sullivan?”

My face flames. I stare at the chart. Typical slicer-and-dicer. I remember rotating with him five years ago. Protocols were different than at NYU. I was at the sink scrubbing up and he was beside me, doing the same, when suddenly he grabbed my hands.

“No, no… this is how you do it,” he said, smiling. His fingers, lean and strong, slid around and between mine, soaping them up. He pressed against me. “You’re new - drinks later? I can show you the lay of the land.”

I had shaken my head, embarrassed my washing wasn’t up to Hopkins par, embarrassed I had a hard-on, too. Arrias hasn’t been too nice to me since.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. The patch. I wrote these orders up last night, after sharing a few hits with the stage crew after the Christmas play rehearsal. “Apologies. Long night.”

“There are no excuses in surgery,” Arrias says. “But thank you for providing an excellent teaching opportunity. Thankfully not at the expense of our patient. Good catch, Doctor Miller.” His gaze lingers on her overlong. “I’ll enjoy working with you.”

He strides out. I turn to Phoebe, who’s back to checking vitals. “You okay?”

“Are you?” She jabs at the calculator. I double check the numbers and look hard to find a mistake.

“Looks good, sweetie pie,” I say. She tilts out of my kiss. “Gotta go. Page me if you run into any problems – I’m checking on patients.”

Her lips stay pressed together. She doesn’t watch me leave the operating suite. In the hallway, I slump against the wall. When my heart stops slamming against my ribs, I walk around the corner to Recovery. My pre-dawn patient, blasted full of holes by a rival gang banger, is still behind curtains. I chart vitals. Doreen and some new nurse stand behind the small desk, drinking vente somethings. They’ve got the easiest job in the hospital – stare at a bunch of bleating monitors, serve Hawaiian Punch with tiny straws to waking patients, and shoot the shit with the docs. Boredom makes them lax.

I walk to the back supply closet. No one's around. I pull out my keys, insert one into the lockbox. It doesn’t open. I reinsert the key, twist it, but the lock doesn’t budge. Sweat drips into my left eye. My hands shake as I try another key, then another. No luck. I saunter back to the front.

“Hey beautiful,” I say to Doreen. “I need a patch for Mrs. Ossarian, but the box is locked.”

She looks up from writing at the desk. Her partner, R. Rivers according to ID dangling around her neck, laughs.

“That’s why it’s called a lock box, Doctor,” R says.

Smart ass bitch. I lean over the desk, blocking R’s view, and bat my eyes at Doreen. Last summer, before I settled with Phoebe, Dor and I’d gone out for beers after softball. The grapevine says she’d be happy to resume our relationship between the sheets.

“Well, hon, Mrs. O could use some help – she’s in pain from her lung resection.”

“They have morphine up there,” she says.

“She’s throwing up the oral.”

Doreen looks at Nurse Ratchet Rivers, who shrugs. Doreen opens a drawer and palms the key from the magnet embedded in the side of the drawer. I can’t see the drawer or the key, but I know they’re there; I make a point of knowing such things. She leads the way to the back.

“We changed the lock – a bunch of patches went missing. And Vicodin.” Her eyes flicker at me, probing.

“Really?” I meet her gaze. “You and your buddy better be more careful. Any slob could walk back here – narcotics are worth big bucks on the street.”

34 comments:

This is a wild ride for sure. Very well paced, great dialogue and very keen insight..someone close to me was a surg nurse until he lost his license for remarkably similar events as described here.. too real..too much. great piece. Look forward to the whole body!

I'm a nurse and you captured an all too realistic scenario here. I was surprised you knew the drugs! Loved the story and the dialogue. Just one very picky edit, in case you wish to correct-- "I wrote up these orders up last night" --only needs a single up. I enjoyed this!

Great work! I was as tense as he was-and even though I knew I shouldn't have been--was surprised somewhat when the truth of the drug abuse began to come through. It starts as such a "typical" rounds experience. Great pacing. Can't wait to read more.

I can't get enough! You always leave me wanting more, more, more! Loved reading from Kevin's perspective and will check out the link to more about him.

On a quick break b/w class and knitting group and couldn't resist coming on to read, even though I have no time. I am so loving PURE! I have to say I am such a sucker for anything mecial-related so this just makes my day.

Linda, this is fantastic. I lovedeverything about this. My daughter ia an RN. She had been a sx nurse.I have heard a lot. She has left the hospital and wants no part of things that you mention here. Everyone has sid it all, but I have to tell you if this doesn't go into print as soon as you send it out. Then there is no justice.JC

I did stumble slightly over a continuity issue that could easily be fixed. At the start of the bedside conversation Phoebe has a mask on. Then he goes for the kiss (is the mask there?). Then "Her lips stay pressed together" - the mask must be gone. I think what's happening to the mask is important because there's sequential images of the eyes over the mask, the kiss and the lips pressed together.

This work is quite compelling, hooking the reader in right from the start and not letting go. It feels very realistic—the situations, the descriptions, the dialogue. The narrator is well fleshed out in this excerpt. Great job.

Everyone's said it already, but I have to add my two cents - outstanding work! I can't wait to read the whole book. Your style reminds me a lot of Tess Gerritsen, though you have an empathy for your characters that I've not seen in her work, making it all your own of course. Now, hurry up - I want to buy the book. :)

A nerve on fire...

Where I Hang

About Me...

By day, I'm an uptight and proper academic - you know, a publish or perish type who resides in tall towers with the likes of Rapunzul. In the evening, I morph into a lovable mom and wife, play with my children, hang with the hubby.
But when darkness falls and the house stills, I write.